Deus Ex: An Element of Change
by Mirutsa Ilayin
Summary: It was suggested I change the summary. This story is loosely based on the events of Deus Ex.
1. Chapter 1

The story begins in the dead of night in New York City with a man named JC Denton. It does not begin today, but rather some time after today, many years in fact. In this time, while many things have changed, governments, economies, borders, social norms, fashion, music, and what have you, one thing has remained staunchly constant: caffeine is still sold in 200 milligram pills. These pills, typically either yellow or white, can enable a human to maintain awareness much longer than might be otherwise expected, but they only work for so long. The aforementioned JC Denton, as he stepped from a small police boat onto the west dock of Liberty Island in New York, was approaching that point at which the pills stopped working.

He was still very functionally aware, or he would never have accepted this assignment, but he was growing short on patience. "Who's in charge up there?" he barked at one Corporal Collins, the soldier standing perimeter on this particular dock.

"Sergeant Kaplan. Are you the agent?" he answered.

JC simply walked by, unconcerned. "Agent Denton is looking for you," the corporal voluntarily continued the conversation. "He was on his way out, but he should be waiting for you."

JC turned and gave an appreciative nod. Being Agent Denton himself, either the corporal was confused, or his brother was hoping to speak with him. It would be the first he'd seen his brother since before he went in the officer program.

Sure enough, just up ahead, leaning nonchalantly against a bench set outside the dock shanty, was none other than Paul Denton. As JC approached, his mood notably improved.

"Paul." JC was all about simple greetings.

The slightly taller, slightly older man nodded. "It's good to see you, JC." They hugged. Not long; an appropriately brief brother hug.

"Commission went well?" Paul inquired.

"Yeah."

Paul began to navigate the awkward moment by saying, "Hey, listen, I'm sorry."

"It's cool," replied JC. Paul had not been able to attend the graduation ceremony at which JC had earned his rank and job due to an assignment overseas. Neither their mother nor father had been able to attend due to a fatal car accident. Even Captain Graves, his training manager, had been unable to attend, due to some manner of extenuating circumstance. JC had nearly had to pin his own bar and badge on.

After an appropriate uncomfortable silence, the discussion moved forward. "You got briefed?"

"Yeah," answered JC. "But now they tell me wear my Nomex, so I guess I'm going in." Having to don the special black insertion gear on the boat ride over had been one of the night's irritating elements.

Paul reached for a headset that had been sitting on the bench and handed it to his brother. "Well, here's your party favors. It's linked. Have fun."

JC was not amused by his brother's attempt at dramatization. "Who's my brief?" he asked, taking the headset.

"Me, and I've got your code."

"Okay, what happened?"

Paul explained. "Gunther took a shot, put both gunpoints down, with a single bullet even." Gunther was known for being an aggressive shooter.

"Then?"

Paul continued, "A rig. Because of the position, Gunther went in alone to secure the hostages, they set it off. None of us thought it, but this wasn't off the cuff. It was organized, at least four other NSF involved, posing as hostages. The explosion killed one non-hostile, wounded another."

JC could guess the next bit. "And now they have Gunther."

"Yep. They re-secured the hostages and are threatening to kill more. An Alabama sector cell leader's involved -- Marquis Ussery. Runs 17-C4 down there."

"I'm familiar with him," JC replied. "Did the Fort Gordon job. But I don't get it; even if we meet the demands, surely they don't think we're letting them walk away from this."

"I don't know," Paul said. "They've been coming to a sort of ideological head lately, doing desperate things just to make a point. Another thing, they've been moving around in there. It's erratic, almost..." He trailed off.

JC pressed, "what?"

"Well," Paul went on, "the guys say they're just securing the area, but it seems to me they're looking for something.

"Like what?"

"No clue. What could be in there?" The "in there" to which he was referring was the interior of the Statue of Liberty, wherein a small band of radical terrorists had taken a group of tourists hostage. "Anyway, if they are just sealing up, they're taking their time." Paul pressed a finger at JC, "That's where you come in."

JC scoffed. "What do they expect me to do?" He had only graduated a few months ago, and since had mainly been doing investigative work. Surely the CQB folks could handle a quick arrest and move.

"There's only four left, two on point again. They've moved from the gift shop to the restrooms. The general and the other perp are roaming around still."

JC just blinked; his question hadn't been answered.

"Arrest the general."

"What?" JC failed to see the point. "What about the civvies and Gunther?"

Paul answered, "There's a team going in. You just handle the top hat."

"Why me?"

"You've been working with Anna on the Clinton stuff right?"

In fact, JC was none too fond of Anna. "Yeah."

"They think it's connected," Paul said.

"Well, obviously it's connected. Look at the timing."

"More than that," Paul explained, "we have an informant, says Ussery engineered the hit."

JC was putting it together. "So he might know..."

"...where they plan on taking it." Paul had a habit of finishing his younger brother's sentences.

"So I interrogate him. What's his RC?" JC asked, referring to his ability to resist interrogation.

Paul was flat, "Probably high, got any ideas?"

"Yeah, maybe." JC always had ideas. "I should get in there then."

"Sorry about this impromptu shit."

JC chuckled. "Hey. Reacting to situations is what I do best."

"Good luck. Code's Black Umbrella Seven."

"Why you?"

Paul answered the unasked question, "I was filing some paperwork. Volunteered. Didn't wanna miss it. I dunno, thought it might make up for--" The thought drifted into silence.

A silence JC broke, "I'll see ya."

They nodded and parted ways.

JC made his way quickly through the maze of barriers, soldiers, officers, and lights. Near the front was the local orchestrator, Sergeant Kaplan, whom he greeted.

"Evening, Agent," he replied curtly. Kaplan had an even lower caffeine level than JC.

"Black Umbrella Seven."

Kaplan glanced at him briefly, "I'll put it in. Ladder on the east side is your India Papa. Stay quiet, try not to piss anybody off. They're blind over there, but not deaf, and I got people going in. Good luck." It was quick, to the point. Much like Kaplan's relationships with women.

"You too."

JC worked his way around to the statue's east side, and there was his promised ladder. The statue is comprised of several layers, the bottommost shaped like a star, before the feet of the actual sculpture began. The ladder allowed JC quiet and quick access to the upper levels, where the terrorists had no presence, where he could enter the facility through a maintenance access.

The would have all entrances to their operating sphere locked and rigged, but these old building were often replete with ventilation routes. JC had no trouble picking the lock, and opening a vent in the ceiling that presented itself, but reminded himself to be cautious. He wasn't sure how ready the top hat would be for his tactics. Ussery had been recruited in Florida, and became a top hat, or terrorist cell coordinator, in Alabama. The Southern cells were typically shoddy at best, but he had had a few shining moments. A hit on an armory in Fort Gordon in Georgia that he worked yielded several military vehicles and quite a volume of munitions.

He hung the small black headset on his ear and tapped it, then slipped on his balaclava over it. He heard the shortwave crackle signaling a transmission, then Jacobson's voice. "Gimme some light." He gave the earpiece another light tap, then proceeded into the vent. "Copy that," came Jacobson. "I'll be tuned in." JC kept a sharp eye out as he moved along for pressure traps, tripwires, and laser beams. It was nearly pitch black in here, but that was hardly a problem for the agent.

The story began with JC Denton. JC Denton was a very special man; in fact, only two of his kind existed, and the other was Paul. They could both see very easily in the dark. The Denton brothers, and their parents, had been involved in a very severe car wreck some years before. They had both taken leave at the same time, as JC would soon enter the field in England, and Paul was being shipped to Asia. They decided to get together once more. There was a traffic light, and somebody must have run it, but fault was never found. The Denton's car had been hit with such force that it spun twice before impacting a telephone pole. The parents had been crushed to death; the concussion caused grievous internal injury to both brothers. JC and Paul died that day.

Prior to coming to Liberty Island, JC had reviewed the plans for the statue quite thoroughly, and while there was an unexpected shaft here or there, he was fairly comfortable navigating the narrow passages. If Ussery hit the shipment, why wasn't he moving with it? What was he doing, holing himself up in a dead end here on the island? The tracking beacons still showed all three boxes in Battery Park, but he suspected those boxes were mostly empty now.

Coming to his intended juncture of ducts, he tapped once on his earpiece, signaling Jacobson. Alex Jacobson was a detection and transmissions coordinator that he'd met post-graduation during his work in South Manhattan. His job in high-risk scenarios as this one was simply to keep JC posted on the presence of danger, and to log JC's occasional updates. The receiver in JC's ear could be heard only by JC, so Alex was free to speak at will, giving the operative whatever technical or warning data needed. The guy actually under the gun, for the sake of stealth, used a system of taps to transmit Performa messages back to the DTC. Alex had also been Denton's TAC, or technical advisory specialist, meaning basically JC asked questions, and Alex "googled" the answers. Alex's access to information, due to both clearance and training in hacking systems, was nearly unlimited.

The computer guru's voice crackled in again, "Hotel zero, umbrella seven. All clear."

JC descended into a cramped cleaning closet. The closet opened onto the hallways leading to the balcony overlooking the original torch, still proudly displayed in the statue's lobby. Moving with the silent grace of a cat, he began searching the area for his target. The terrorists whose leader he was hunting were members of the NSF, the National Secessionist Forces. It the west, it had become a formidable paramilitary operation, aspiring to overthrow the United States government. As it had moved east, however, it became less openly viable. In most places, it was a rip shod network of half-asleep rebels, whose attacks, while inconvenient, seldom amounted to any real progress.

In New York, however, the staging ground was hot, and the NSF was organized. They had no primary outposts, and seldom opened into real combat, like the gung-ho militias of Oregon, Montana, and Washington. They wore no uniforms, and the chain of command was broken and cellular. Their arms and recruiting policies were hardly standard; they used whatever they could get. Nonetheless, the New York sector had the world's attention more often than not, and no one would dare call their work ineffective.

"I'm getting movement!" The sudden speech, right in his ear, startled JC. Alex clarified, "In the skylight room, looks like he may be trying to access the old stairwell."

Agent Denton began ascending stairs and checking corners, having been given a destination. Had the story ended with the car wreck, there would be not story to tell, obviously. The Denton brothers had been working for UNATCO in standard ground force peacekeeping for some time, and they just happened to die in the right place and at the right time. Authorities made decisions in quick time, and the bodies of JC and Paul found themselves strangely rejuvenated. A biotechnology called "nanites" had been moved into experimental phase, but had not yet found any guinea pigs. The Denton brothers fit the bill, and they hardly had anything to lose.

Sure enough, there in the skylight room, with a glass ceiling peering up into the internal structure of the magnificent work of art, was Marquis Ussery, JC's objective. He himself was looking up into the statue, looking a bit disappointed as well. Disappointment turned quickly to shock and rage as he was tackled from behind, and quickly handcuffed.

"Is it worth it? Is it really worth it?" JC muttered, pressing the business end of a Mark23 to his head. Sitting up on his mark, his free hand removed the balaclava. He leaned over to looked Ussery in the eye.

Ussery was not pleased. "I know you."

"Yeah, funny that." He decided the gun had served its purpose, and reholstered it. "Need to know a couple things."

"I ain't saying shit."

"You already said shit." Always bravado with these. "I mean, how much do you think I need, fucker?"

"Ain't saying shit."

JC continued. "Now, we're gonna do some bargaining."

JC was loosely categorized as a "mech." UNATCO had been using mechs for some time now, replacing such things as limbs and eyes with machines that functioned more effectively. Functioned in combat, at any rate. They did not, however, function as well socially, as one might imagine, due to the unsightliness of such modifications.

Paul and JC, however, were different. The nanites had given them new life, but more than that, had made their bodies what scientists called "over 40 more effective than unmodified peer operatives." They were stronger, faster, more aware. Their skin had a greater tenacity, acting somewhat like Kevlar. And, as mentioned, they could see in the dark. All of these modifications had very little aesthetic effect on the agent himself, however, aside from pale skin and slightly albino-like eyes. It was this very distinction that made these agents perfect for infiltration and covert operations, seeing as anyone with a hydraulic left arm was clearly UNATCO.

"Get off my ass, motherfucker!"

"I mean, where you think you're going?" JC laughed. "They're storming the points as we speak. Your operation is done."

Ussery had no retort.

JC went on. "We don't have much time. They're coming, and they ain't gonna be happy with you. Sucks for you, in case they get a little overzealous in the questioning."

Ussery knew what the agent meant. He knew what UNATCO interrogators were capable of. "What's your fucking point."

JC could tell he was making headway. "You make me happy, answer three questions without lying to me, and I tell them you've already been questioned. You go straight to jail to await trial. I have that power." This one was going to crack, and ungracefully at that.

"Three questions?"

"Three. Who hit the shipment, Ussery? Who hit it?"

"I don't know. Another ce--"

Denton cut him off. "Who hit the shipment, Ussery? Another cell did it. Who hit the shipment, Ussery? Another cell did it." JC repeated this exchange in rapid fire six more times.

Ussery began to come undone. "Shut up!"

JC grinned; this one would definitely crack. "You hit the fucking shipment, you lying sack of shit!" he yelled, slapping the pinned man on the head. "That's why you're up here in New York! Now, how did you get them into Battery Park? Tell me how you moved them."

There was a silence that JC found too long for comfort. Time was not on his side, so he decided to use a catalyst. Specifically, he took a lighter out of his cargo pocket.

"You a pyrophobe, Ussery?" He struck the lighter into life, and drew the flame close to Ussery's face, to his eyes.

"Oh, shit!"

JC pressed, "How did you move them?"

"Shit, okay!" The lighter was too much. "Tunnels, moved them through the tunnels."

"That's right!" Nothing JC didn't already know. "The tunnel starts at a dock in Manhattan and comes up in good ole Castle Clinton. See how much I already fucking know?" He doused the lighter and eased off. "That's one question right. Next question, how many crates are in the park now? Tell me a number."

"Three."

The lighter came back to life. "You a fucking pyrophobe, Ussery? How many crates? Three. How many are there, Ussery? Three, there's three crates! How many? Three." He continued repeating the exchange, bringing the lighter inches from Ussery's face, using his weight, knees and free hand to keep the struggling man from sliding all over the floor.

"Shit!" was apparently Ussery's favorite word.

"You moved them Ussery! There's one, maybe two boxes. You moved the rest! See, I know that shit. I haven't reported it yet, which is the only reason they haven't blown through there like Nazis at a Hanukkah party! You fucking lie to me again, there gonna find your melted ass in a puddle! Who's moving the goods, Ussery? Who's taking the shit through Brooklyn?"

JC waited a moment, and was unhappy with the progress, so he let the flames, for just a second, lick the skin of Ussery's cheek. The man began gyrating and screaming, "Holy shit, all right! Jojo, fucking Jojo Fine. Don't fucking burn me!"

JC knew the name. The lighter went away. "Where's it going, Ussery?"

"I don't fucking know, seriously! They never told me that shit! I don't fucking know. Jojo, he'd know, maybe he'd fucking know, I'm just supposed to keep you folks back."

"Like a distraction?"

"Yeah."

JC was happy with that. It seemed believable, and Ussery seemed very sincere now. He was curious about one more thing. "What are you looking for up here, Ussery?"

"I answered my questions, get the fuck off."

"You didn't give me three pieces of information." The third answer had been a non-answer.

Ussery was adamant, "You said three fucking questions!"

JC stood up and leaned against the wall. "All right, that was the deal."

The captured man decided he wasn't done talking after all. "Just giving people a chance. The same chance the fuckers in Washington get."

JC was not really paying attention. He had heard it all.

"You know, they doin' it," said Ussery.

"Yep. I'm sure they are." JC really didn't care to hear whatever mind-numbing justification Ussery was about to produce.

"They makin' the plague," Ussery continued. "Just like they been building up the rich, the big business, use taxes to kill the workin' sucker. Regular folks don't have no voice no more."

JC grew weary, "I didn't come up here to discuss politics. I came to arrest you. By the way, you're under arrest. You have rights and shit. Whatever." 


	2. Chapter 2

JC worked his way to Sergeant Kaplan, now supervising from the first floor of the statue. Following Ussery's immobilization, the remaining terrorists had panicked, and the insertion team made short work of them. Ussery was, in fact, the only one taken alive. 

"Prisoner's been questioned," JC called as he came into earshot of Kaplan. "Put an IX in; I'll sign it."

Kaplan sneered. "Jeez, I really hate that shit, agent. The rest of us have questions too, you think?"

"Mine are more important," JC replied, brushing him off with a gesture. Kaplan grunted and went back to his work.

JC cast about until he found a security officer who looked less than busy. "Private..." he glanced at the name tag, "...Lloyd."

"Sir?"

"You into anything right now?"

"Your name, sir?"

"Denton."

"Paul's brother?"

JC realized he would always be known this way. "None other," he replied.

"Good to meet you agent," enthused the private, offering his hand. "What can I do?"

"Can you take me to Manderley?"

"First time at HQ?"

They began walking. "Yeah."

"Sure thing," Lloyd answered. "He's on the second level. In fact, so are you. You know there's a couple of boxes, been in your office for weeks."

"No kidding?"

"Your stuff, I guess."

JC had assumed as much. "I guess."

"I'm security, so I do patrols." Lloyd kept talking, "I check your office, nobody ever moves that stuff. Sometimes the agents, they get offices they never use, or maybe use once. You guys are in the field so much and all, you know?"

"Sure."

"They put you out there just as soon as you come in the door, it seems. See, with me, they kept me working shit jobs forever, and now I just do security and mop-up work. Still not really field action, you know?"

"I suppose not."

"Not that you guys shouldn't get offices. I mean, it's nice to have a place for your stuff, you know? I wouldn't know, really; I never got my own..."

The conversation, if one could call it that, continued this way right up to Manderley's office. JC had been playing a homeless bum in Battery Park for nearly three months now. While Private Lloyd's constant, and mostly inconsequential, noise might have annoyed another, to JC, it was welcome change from the prattle of the strung-out, the criminal, and the diseased. In fact, were he better rested, he actually might have participated. As it were, he was looking forward to briefing down and going home, or at least the derelict van near Battery Park serving as a home.

As they stepped through a doorway and came to a stop, Lloyd was still talking. "So ever since then, they make us check those fixtures. Just in case, you know? Still, whole thing was pretty random, if you ask me. Anyway, that's Janice Reed, Manderley's secretary."

"Oh." JC had introverted and lost track. "We're here."

"Glad to help." With that, Private Lloyd was gone.

JC turned to the secretary, introduced himself, and was momentarily ushered into the next room, where tall, grey haired Manderley sat at a rather largish desk typing away at his PC. Chief Joseph Manderley was the division head of the Security and Investigations Division. He was, in short, the boss. He was an authoritative figure, but still had an aspect of civility and diplomacy to him. JC waited patiently while he finished his task.

Without turning from the monitor, Manderley spoke, "Good work out there."

"Thank you, chief."

"No joke, people are impressed." Manderley finally stopped typing and faced JC, motioning for him to sit. "So did you learn anything useful?"

"I believe so, sir." He knew what was coming up.

"I sure as hell hope so." Manderley's face was hard to read. He was neither angry nor cordial, but a simple straight line. "You put an IX on this guy, which you need to sign, by the way."

JC braced himself. "Is that a problem?" He knew when he promised Ussery that he might have been overstepping a bit.

"I don't know, agent, is it?" Manderley continued. "See, the thing is, you're pretty green to all this still, and people don't take these things lightly."

JC was frustrated; he couldn't tell if he was being corrected or commended. "I apologize if--"

Manderley cut him off; Manderley had a habit of cutting people off. "No need agent, if it was worth it." JC thought the pause overdramatic. "So, was it worth it?"

Time to drop the bomb, he thought. "The shipment's not in the park. Not most of it anyway."

"What?" Boom.

The shipment that everyone seemed so heated up about was the three refrigerated crates of United States appropriated cold-culture vials of a single-strain virus manufactured by a biotech company in Hong Kong, China. The shipment contained 2500 vials, which amount to approximately 500,000 doses of the virus, to be injected directly into the blood. Because of the population index at this time, that number of doses was all but negligible, and therefore, each vial was extremely valuable. In NSF hands, it could keep them well funded for some time. The market value of the virus was so high because it was the only known effective vaccine and treatment for a fatal epidemic known as the Gray Death.

The virus in the vials was commonly known as Ambrosia.

"I had already thought they moved some of it, and Ussery confirmed it. One George Fine, aka Jojo, is networking it. He's a local drug runner. I think does some pimping in the Black district. We have a file on--"

Manderley interrupted, "You're sure of this?"

"Mostly."

"You've laid eyes on it?"

Oh, thought JC, he meant that sure. "Well... no."

"Then get your ass back to the park and lay eyes on it. Let Alex know when you've seen it, try to secure whatever's there. I'll set up a raid team with... oh, Navarre, I guess. She's out that way." He said it as though he were ordering a burger at a drive-thru, as though he weren't assigning an exhausted Agent Denton another three plus hours of operations.

"Uh, sir, I was hoping--"

"There's no time JC. The fellas put your hobo clothes in the vault. Janice will take you to Carter."

JC recognized that name. "General Carter?" The man had been something of a legend ever since his work in the Merced Operation.

"Yeah, he runs the vault," answered Manderley. "Get changed and get out there. Do your thing."

JC was not sure. "Sir, I'm not sure--" At least he got the main idea out before being cut off again.

"Can you get in the castle, agent?"

"It's a risk."

"Give me a number."

"Sixty," JC replied, referring to the percent chance of successful completion.

Apparently, sixty was enough. "Make it happen. And sign that IX."

* * *

The ferry dock on the southern tip of Manhattan Island had been shut down for six years now, but by no means was it completely out of use. Outside of being a public restroom for the transients of Battery Park, it was also used to move things and people from one island to another. The bridges, to include the Brooklyn Bridge, were heavily patrolled by police due to the ease of traffic constraint. The cops who worked there were so irate with being there, they couldn't be bought. In fact, most were crooked in the other direction; they would make criminals of innocents out of spite. Most of the subway lines had long since been shut down due to lack of security and frequency of attacks there.

The waterways, however, were largely neglected by law enforcement agencies, mostly due to the logistics of it. It simply wasn't worth the small number of actual busts to be made there. These waterways were the lifeline of the Manhattan and Brooklyn underworld, which, in this time, was expansive. It was these waterways that Jojo's network used to traffic his goods back and forth. It was these waterways the NSF had used to beach the stolen Ambrosia.

The story began with a man named JC Denton. For the past three months, however, Agent Denton had been known to his peers as Bronce Keesley. He had played in his head with the idea of trying to use the nickname "Keese," but no one in Battery Park had gotten to know him well enough to use a nickname. Developing deep, meaningful relationships with the impoverished, ailing community of the once celebrated New York park had not been Bronce's job. Developing shallow but informative and usable relationships had. These relationships had, for Bronce, brought to light many underground personalities and illegal resources. Ussery and Jojo were two of the people he had met; resources included drugs, weapons, and now Ambrosia, as well as the means to store and move them.

Among these means had been the storage tunnel used by Jojo's crew wherein the three missing crates now sat. This tunnel began at a hole torn out of a basement wall. The basement was under an abandoned building overlooking the piers where the Staten Island Ferry had once docked near the park before it had been shut down. The gaping entrance was covered over by a nonfunctioning soda vending machine, and it was this entrance that JC had discovered. About three hundred yards away was the old Clinton Fort, and within were the two kiosks that had once been tourist attractions and were now just drug addict attractions. The other egress was a metal hatch in the floor of one of these kiosks.

JC had once again entered the field at Battery Park, heading first to the old wharf building. He was again wearing the same dirty, beat-up brown jacket, raiders t-shirt, and torn jeans he'd worn since he started working out here. This time, however, he had brought along his Mark23, stuffed into the back of his pants. He made his way through the building, carefully and quietly. Soon he came to the room that led to the basement, in which were the two guards Jojo had apparently posted on this end. It was a dark room, illuminated only by a large flashlight lying on the floor and the moonlight that streamed in.

He had expected these guards and expected a gun fight, which was part of the reason he brought his sidearm. He was pleased, however, to note that one of the guards, it being both late in the night and dark here, had fallen asleep. The other, being one of Jojo's delinquent, undisciplined thugs, was high out of his mind, lying on the ground, drooling on himself and moaning. Without incident, JC proceeded to the basement.

The situation here had become tense as soon as JC reported the presence of the tunnel to UNATCO, and his belief that the Ambrosia was being stored there. The belief was confirmed as the police had closed in, when the NSF elements led by Ussery had simultaneously taken hostages in the statue and in one of the few active subway stations near Central Park. The terrorists were very clear about what they wanted: they were to be allowed to move the shipment out of Battery Park without interference, or the shipment would be destroyed, and the hostages killed.

JC was fairly convinced that the UNATCO authorities were more concerned with the Ambrosia than the hostages, which was one of the reasons he had withheld his conjecture that it was all smoke and mirrors, that most of the shipment had already been moved. If the forces came storming in and exposed the ruse, the hostages might have been killed out of spite, so JC had waited until the folks working the subway station had resolved the situation.

He moved quickly through the tunnel, eager to complete his assignment and get some much needed rest. When he came to the end, the tunnel opened into a cube-shaped cave in which was a ladder leading the Castle Clinton hatch and three large portable refrigerators. He opened the first. He opened the second. He opened the third.

Out of 2500 vials, he estimated maybe 80 to 100 were here. He had been right, and now he had laid eyes on it. He reached for the earpiece in the jacket pocket, still linked to Jacobson, put it on, and gave it two taps.

"Are we green?" came Alex's voice. JC gave it another tap, and gears began to turn. Anna Navarre, the agent who had been JC's partner since the shipment vanished the day before, had a task force ready to wreak havoc on Jojo's flunkies. JC had given the signal, and the rest was up to her.

Suddenly, he thought again about it. He knew it wouldn't have left the kiosk, but the scary possibility that the rest was above the hatch was enough to compel JC to make certain. As he came out of the hatch, he found no vials, but he did find an armed man, compliments of Jojo, no doubt. The guard, a young black man with fairly long dreadlocks, turned and saw him. As Dreadlocks began to raise his pistol, JC though quick.

"Don't shoot!" he cried, holding up his hand. "Jojo sent me."

"What?"

JC needed to buy more time. "You gotta hurry. He says they got the other guys, and you gotta move. I don't even know what that means, but he was worked up. Said they're coming for you."

Dreads was considering it. Gesturing with the weapon, he said, "Stay right there," and he walked to the open door of the storage room they were in and began to call to another of the thugs.

This was when JC noticed movement. There was another person in the room. In the far corner, shrouded in the dark, was Josh.

Agent Navarre had been assigned to receive the shipment once it reached New York and escort it to its next destination. The shipment was lost at sea, and the boat had been scuttled. None of the crew, including the on-board UNATCO agent, made it back, and were presumably dead or working with the NSF. When it did not arrive, Navarre had been made responsible for finding it. Denton had not been informed until after he had already realized something was abnormal in the park; he had contacted Navarre. The progress so far had been mostly accredited to her. In truth, it mostly belonged to Josh.

JC quickly approached the terrified twelve-year old boy, knelt down, and asked with urgency, "Josh, what're you doing here?"

"I came in looking for food," answered Josh, and JC knew "food" probably meant drugs or alcohol. "Sometimes people stash here, but then they wouldn't let me go."

"It's alright."

JC had befriended the little street urchin out of pure coincidence, helping to keep him fed, and out of pure coincidence, Josh told JC about the hole in the basement wall, and about the people going in and out. Apparently he had been using it as well, and now he was here, he was stuck, and he was scared.

"I don't wanna get shot."

"It's okay," JC put the ear piece on as he tried to console the boy. "Yeah, abort, no gravity. Repeat, abort. Do you copy?" said JC, into the air.

Josh was surprised, recognizing the radio-style talk. "Who are you?" Up to now, Josh thought he was just another homeless junkie.

JC put a hand out at Josh, "Shh. No, november hotel, abort, do you copy?" There was trouble. Alex was telling him that Navarre wasn't interested in non-hostiles, but in getting this over with. JC cussed when he heard commotion outside, realizing she had begun and wasn't pulling out. In fact, he cussed a little louder than he had meant.

Dreads had spotted that something was awry. "Hey! What's going on over here?" He approached, sticking the gun out toward them. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I told you, Jojo--"

"Bullshit!" The ruse had failed.

Another man, this one displaying a well-thought out tattoo reading "Str8t Killa," dashed into the room, and headed for the hatch. "We gotta go," he called, "now!"

Dreads turned and said, "Hey, we got a rat problem."

"So kill 'em."

In that moment, as the last word tumbled out of Str8t Killa's mouth, as Dreads turned to face them and the synapses required to pull the trigger began to fire, inside that moment, JC reacted.

With inhuman speed, his right hand came up and tore the Glock from it's path as the free left hand slammed into Dread's chin, throwing his head back. The pistol rang out, putting and impotent 9mm round into the floor, and muffled the sound of Dread's neck as it broke and he slumped to the ground.

JC dropped into a crouch, and his left hand wasted no time in finding the Mark23 and bringing it around. Finding his bead, there was a moment's hesitation as he watched. As Killa began to bring the muzzle of the AK toward JC, three reports sounded, followed shortly by several more as Killa's finger pumped bullets into the ceiling and he fell back against the wall.

Killa was wounded, and JC was fairly certain that Dreads was dead. He darted across the room, risking the open door, to snatch the AK-47 from Killa's hand. A third man was running toward the shed door, and just as he came through it, JC grabbed his wrist, spun him, and send him tumbling into the far wall with a push, out of the room.

He slammed the door shut, and slid a nearby rack of stainless steel shelves into a barricade position, just as a fourth assailant ripped holes in the door from the outside, probably with another AK. JC ducked and scooted back to the corner and the kid, and began to gather him up.

"No!" He was screaming and fighting, terror having taking over reason.

"You've got to, come on, I can't leave yet." JC overpowered the boy and hugged him to his chest, then made for the hatch.

Once inside, he found a corner that provided a good vantage, should anyone follow, and simply sat, rocking the boy petrified with fear, saying over and over, "It's alright. It's okay."


End file.
